A Cold, Corrupting Fate
by Shinysavage
Summary: AU, part 6. Albus Dumbledore is dead, and the Minister for Magic is in the hands of the Dark Lord. Beset on all sides by enemies, Harry Potter must find a way to victory without losing himself along the way.
1. Prologue: Dreams within Dreams

**A Cold, Corrupting Fate**

Book 6 of 'Harry Potter and the Second War'

_Albus Dumbledore is dead, and the Minister for Magic is in the hands of the Dark Lord. Beset on all sides by enemies, Harry Potter must find a way to victory without losing himself along the way._

**Disclaimer:** If you recognise it, I don't own it. The title is from 'Destroyer of a Soul', by Lionel Johnson.

I hate you with a necessary hate.

First, I sought patience: passionate was she:

My patience turned in very scorn of me,

That I should dare forgive a sin so great,

As this, through which I sit disconsolate;

Mourning for that live soul, I used to see;

Soul of a saint, whose friend I used to be:

Till you came by! a cold, corrupting, fate.

Why come you now? You, whom I cannot cease

With pure and perfect hate to hate? Go, ring

The death-bell with a deep, triumphant toll!

Say you, my friend sits by me still? Ah, peace!

Call you this thing my friend? this nameless thing?

This living body, hiding its dead soul?

**Prologue: Dreams within Dreams**

The little boy ran as fast as he could, his arms pumping and his eyes streaming. The bigger boys were coming, their taunting cries ringing out ahead of them. He turned a corner, his feet splashing in a puddle, and he skidded to a halt, his heart sinking. It was a dead end.

Harry Potter watched as the boy sagged, hope leaving him. Something about the boy was familiar; blue eyes, badly cut black hair, and perhaps something about the jaw line.

"Here, Tommy, Tommy, Tommy!"

The little boy closed his eyes for a moment, but opened them before he turned around. Three other boys, bigger and older, stood at the mouth of the alley. They were standing in carefully constructed nonchalance, their hands in their pockets and grins that could not quite hide their gleeful viciousness. One of them, standing in the middle and slightly better dressed, looked at his companions meaningfully.

"Why's he keep running away from us, eh? We just want to play, Tommy…"

"Please – Andrew, I just want…"

"Shut up, you little whiner!" said one of the other two boys. The third cracked his knuckles with a leer. The first boy, presumably Andrew, looked offended.

"Now now, lads, play nice. We had fun, din't we? Had a nice run around, caught ourselves a prize. Tommy ain't going to stop us playing with the prize, is he?"

The boys advanced on Tommy, laughing, and Harry looked away. He knew what was coming, and did not feel the need to watch it. He nearly jumped out of his skin as he realised that his vigil was not a solitary one.

"I'd forgotten this," Titus said. He did not look away, staring moodily over Harry's shoulder as the slapping sound of a beating began to ring out. "Andrew was a bastard. Not literally. He was the matron's son. King of the orphanage, he was. Had his own little gang, and he'd beat us for the tiniest reason. He always got away with it too."

"How could you forget…" Harry trailed off. "Never mind. That's Voldemort, isn't it? Young Tom Riddle."

"Who else was it going to be?" Titus retorted, flicking his eyes to meet Harry's. "It certainly isn't you, is it?"

"Suppose not," Harry said. The sounds of violence from behind him had ceased, and he looked back at the group. The three boys were standing over Tommy – Voldemort – and dusting their hands off. Voldemort was curled on the floor, sporting the beginnings of a nasty looking black eye and spotted with blood.

"See you soon, Tommy," Andrew said carelessly, and he wandered away, followed by his lackeys. Harry watched him go with thorough distaste. The trio disappeared around the corner, and Harry looked back to Voldemort. The young boy had raised his head, and there was a look of fierce determination on his face. He went to stand, and curled back up, wincing.

"Yeah. Bruised for days," Titus said.

Voldemort crawled towards the wall of the alley, and slid himself upwards. Using the wall for support, he made his way to the mouth of the alley. As he reached it, he slipped, and fell to the floor once more. There was a muffled cry of rage, and the young boy slammed his hand down into the puddle he had slipped in earlier. There was a splash, cut short. Voldemort stared at the puddle, his face clearing in bewilderment.

The water had iced over.

The young boy poked at it, as if he didn't believe it were real. He immediately pulled his finger back, possibly shocked by the cold.

"Was this the first time?" Harry asked Titus. The spirit nodded absently.

"Yep. Makes you wonder how I could forget it really, doesn't it?"

"You're not really him though, are you? Not anymore," Harry pointed out.

"True."

Voldemort stood up, his pain apparently forgotten. He cast one final look at the ice, and then scurried away. Harry could just imagine what he was plotting.

"Yep."

Harry looked at Titus, confused.

"I spent the next few weeks trying to work out what I'd done and how," the spirit elaborated. "Took me ages, but I managed it. Then I just needed to work out how to make it do what I wanted."

"It can't have been easy," Harry said. He had some experience of that himself, after all, and he had a fairly well rounded understanding of how magic worked. For a young orphan who didn't know magic was real…

"It wasn't, but it was worth it," Titus said with a flash of satisfaction. "The other two – Bobby and Edward, I think they were called – left not long after. Adopted by somebody. But Andrew…well, he lived here. It took a while, but I got my revenge." He smiled. "He never bullied me again."

"Never bullied him again, you mean. You're not Voldemort," Harry said again.

Titus rolled his eyes. "You know what I mean. Don't complicate things."

"_Please! Please, I'm begging you…"_

Harry looked up sharply. "Did you hear that?" He set off at a jog towards the mouth of the alley.

"Hear what?" Titus called after him. Harry looked over his shoulder to tell him to follow, but he couldn't see the spirit. Or the alley. He looked forwards again, and everything was white.

He tripped and fell, catching himself on his hands. When he looked up, he was somewhere else.

The room was distantly familiar to him. Dusty shelves stood on all sides, crammed full of things that he did not recognise. He looked closer at one and recoiled; it was a withered, blackened hand that flickered with a hazy pulse of magic. A quick glance around suggested that the other items were of similar nature, and he looked away from the shelves.

"Where are we?"

Titus stood there, looking round with curiosity burning on his face. Harry shook his head.

"I don't know. I've seen it before though. Can't remember where it is though."

"Well, that's a Hand of Glory, I think," Titus said, pointing at the wrinkled hand. "Not exactly reputable, wherever we are."

Harry opened his mouth to ask, but then decided he didn't want to know. He moved forward slowly, treading carefully. The shelves tapered off, clearly forming an aisle, and when he reached the end he poked his head around the corner. He was met by the sight of ice blue eyes, and a tall young man walking towards him. He barely had time to gasp before the man had walked straight through him. He jumped back, turning to watch the man in shock.

"What did you expect? You're not really here, are you?"

"It's still weird," Harry said. "That's you again, isn't it?"

"I thought I wasn't him anymore," Titus said.

"You're the one who said not to complicate things," Harry said without looking at him. Voldemort was prowling through the shelves, his eyes lighting on each item for only the briefest glance before moving on. It was clear he was looking for something, but Harry could not work out what might interest Voldemort so much in this dingy little place.

Voldemort stopped, drawing in a sharp breath. He reached up to a shelf, and then drew back. He looked around, his eyes furtive. When satisfied that there was no-one else around, he reached out again. This time, when he pulled his hand back, there was a flash of gold, and something dangling from a chain.

"Ah, Master Riddle! I didn't hear you arrive."

Voldemort stiffened, and his free hand twitched. For a moment, Harry could see him trying to decide whether to kill the new arrival. A heartbeat later, he relaxed. He brushed his hand over the front of his robes, and the chain was gone. Voldemort turned, plastering a smooth, polite expression on his face and bowing slightly.

"Mr Borgin, a pleasure to meet you…"

"_You're insane. Do you really think you can get away with this?"_

Once more, Harry's attention was torn away from Voldemort. The voice came from nowhere. This time though, Titus reacted as well, looking around in confusion.

"You can hear it now?" Harry asked.

Titus nodded, starting to walk away from the conversation still happening behind them. Harry cast one final look at Voldemort, and then followed the spirit through the shop. Titus paused for nothing, walking straight through a shelf to get to the other side. This brought Harry up short for a moment. Would it hurt? Voldemort passing through him hadn't been painful, although rather disturbing on a whole number of different levels, but it wasn't an experience he had enjoyed.

Titus poked his head back through the shelf, his face creased with irritation. "Come on! We'll lose track of it!"

"Fine," Harry muttered. The wooden beams seemed to stick in him as he walked through them, resisting his passage. They were indefinably solid, and he had to pull himself out of them on the other side. Titus did not wait for him to recover, but headed off in the direction of a fireplace, covered in dust and flakes of burnt wood. It hadn't been used for quite some time, although there was snow on the window. It was possible that Borgin did not feel the cold, although by the looks of the rest of the shop, Harry thought it more likely the man was simply cheap.

"So, do you know who that Borgin bloke was?" Titus asked as he examined the fireplace.

"No…yes!" Harry said, correcting himself as a thought struck him. "I knew I'd been here before – Borgin and Burke's. It's a shop in Knockturn Alley."

Titus looked back at Harry, his brow wrinkled. "Knockturn Alley? What on earth were you doing there?"

"There was an accident with some Floo Powder," Harry said, waving the question away as if it were unimportant. His attitude did not work.

"You got lost in the Floo network? That's the most pathetic thing I've ever heard."

"It happens to loads of people!" Harry said defensively.

"Yeah, but I don't have to share their heads, do I? This way." Titus ducked down, and stepped over the grate into the fireplace. When both feet were inside, he vanished. For a moment, Harry lingered, looking back the way they had come. He wanted to know what was going on, but he wanted to know why Voldemort was here, and what he wanted with the chain that he had stolen.

Of course, he had no way of knowing if this was a memory or a dream. If the former, then there was the chance he could learn something useful. If the latter…well, he didn't really want to know what the Dark Lord dreamt about. Perhaps the chain would turn out to be carved from the bones of his enemies, or something.

After a few moments, he stepped into the grate. Whatever else was happening, he didn't want to be alone.

Within seconds, he was bitterly regretting his decision.

It was not a normal Floo trip, if there was such a thing. Instead of a steady path of green fire, Harry was thrown out of the fire into a hazily defined sky. He fell through rain clouds, lightning lashing at the choppy sea below. He just had time to notice a split in the cliff-face before he hit the water. There was a splash, and he landed in a room he did not recognise. It was dark, the torches extinguished and the windows covered. At the rear of the room, on a pedestal, stood a cup of some kind. It was heavily warded; Harry could taste the power seeping into the air around it. He took a moment to look around the room, and screamed as a vast, hulking figure slashed its arm down at him. He ducked away from the hammer-like fist, going for his wand, but it wasn't there. The shape turned to him, and in desperation Harry leapt through the covered window.

On the other side stood Voldemort. The Dark Lord was cloaked in silence, his red eyes narrowed in thought. At his feet was curled a stout man with wispy hair, great gasping breaths wracking his body. Harry edged closer, looking around to see if either Titus or the thing that had attacked him had followed, but he could see neither of them. As he neared the two figures, the man on the floor uncurled slightly, allowing Harry to see his face.

His nose was caked in blood, and he was missing an eye. His hair had started to fall out, and his skin had taken on a sickly grey pallor. His clothes were torn, and Harry could not see his hat at all, although the chain around his neck was as pristine as ever. All in all, Cornelius Fudge had seen better days. He whimpered slightly as he realised that Voldemort was still there, and the Dark Lord placed his foot on Fudge's face. He seemed not to notice that the Minister was awake; instead, he simply looked around the room thoughtfully. Harry had the impression that he was trying to arrive at a decision.

For the first time, Harry pitied Fudge. He had never had a great deal of respect for the man, however well he had acted in the aftermath of Voldemort's return, but to see him like this…quite apart from the uncomfortable memories it inspired, Fudge had been completely robbed of any dignity. As he watched, Voldemort raised his wand. Fudge twitched, looking up at it with terror.

"Please…please…don't kill me. I'll do anything."

"What could you possibly offer me that I could not take for myself?" Voldemort asked him. The Dark Lord's voice dripped with icy disdain, and something about it seeped into Fudge's skin. The minister stiffened, and with an effort rolled himself up until he was sitting. Voldemort watched him in amusement, until the Minister spoke.

"I hope Potter makes you burn."

"Potter will do nothing to me, Minister," Voldemort hissed. "But even if he could, you would not be there to see it. _Avada Kedavra!_"

In the instant it took for the green light to swell into existence, Fudge spat one last defiance onto Voldemort's robes. Then he slumped backwards, his face glazing over into the peace of death. Voldemort looked down at him, wiping away the spittle with a wave of his wand.

And then something exploded deep within Harry's centre, something so dark, so foul, so _wrong_, that he thought it would consume him. He fell backwards, convulsing from the un-naturalness eating away inside him, and then there came the roar of flames – an angry scream of resistance from his very soul.

Harry Potter awoke.

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**A/N:** The use of the poem here doesn't quite fit the generally accepted meaning – apparently it was written as a swipe at Oscar Wilde for corrupting one of Johnson's friends – but I think if you read it with Voldemort in mind my reasons for leaping on it should be fairly obvious. Read and tear it apart in in-depth reviews, please!


	2. The Sorcerer Awakes

**Chapter 1: The Sorcerer Awakes**

Harry's eyes fluttered open to murky darkness. For a moment, he lay there in confusion. He did not recognise the room, could barely make out any of the detail. Even if it had been light, he was not wearing his glasses. Then he remembered what he had just seen. It was as if the mere thought caused him pain; something inside his chest erupted and he sat bolt upright, letting out a sharp cry.

"Harry?"

He recognised the voice, but in his confusion and panic could not think from where. With an instinct he was barely aware of, he raised his hand and made a dismissive gesture. A wave of pressure burst from inside him, and there came a series of thuds and a grunt of pain.

"Bloody hell, stop it! It's me!"

Harry lowered his hand, the confusion receding. "Peter?" he asked cautiously.

"Of course it is," his guardian snapped. Over the sound of his own breathing, Harry could hear someone standing up, muttering under their breath. There was a murmured word – and an awareness of a little flare of magic, at the back of Harry's mind – and the room was suddenly filled with light. Harry grimaced, raising his arm to cover his eyes. There were footsteps, and then someone, Peter presumably, pressed something into his hand. His glasses. It was strange how holding them filled him with relief, but he did not dwell on the sudden feeling, instead placing them back on his face.

The room suddenly swam into view. Peter stood before him, his face creased with something between concern and relief.

"Are you ok?" the older wizard asked. "You've been – well, we were worried."

"I'm…I'm ok, yeah," Harry replied after a moment's consideration. "A little woozy, but that's it." It was true. The pain burning in his chest had disappeared as suddenly has it had started. "I feel like I've been asleep for too long though. You know, a little weak. Stiff."

"Hardly surprising," Peter said. Harry focused on him properly for the first time, and he sighed. "You've been – well, the Healers don't really know what you were. In a coma, really. Anyway. You've been out for nearly two months."

Two months? Harry sank back onto the bed, unable to believe what he was hearing. It had felt like only minutes. "What happened to me?"

"Like I said, we don't really know." Moving away for a moment, Peter reached out to grab a chair that had tumbled to the floor. Now that Harry looked round the room, a lot of things had been knocked over; he felt a flash of regret over his too-hastily released magic. Peter set the chair down next to the bed and sat down. There was silence for a moment. Then Peter clapped his hands together.

"Right. How much do you remember from…before?"

Harry pursed his lips in thought. Much of the last few weeks – or longer, as it might have been – were a bit of a blur. He remembered Voldemort coming to Hogwarts, Dumbledore…Azkaban. His time in the prison was the haziest. He had no idea how long he had been imprisoned, or what had happened while he was there, if anything. That was probably more to do with the debilitating effects of the Dementors than anything to do with his coma though.

"I…I escaped from Azkaban. I remember that, sort of. Did Perks get his wand back?"

Peter smiled. "Yes, although his boots were a little the worse for wear. Same for his cloak. We bought him some new ones though, seemed the least we could do. He insisted that we didn't need to, but you know."

Harry nodded. He knew all too well. There were many wizards who would never have forgiven him for taking their wand in such a fashion, although he imagined that knowing that the wand had been taken up against the Dark Lord himself might have brought the warden some small measure of pride.

"Well. You escaped, and got a message to us at Malfoy Manor. We weren't about to just blindly run in there, because that would have been stupid…"

Peter had the decency not to place any special emphasis on the words, but Harry cringed regardless. It hadn't been his finest hour, he was happy to admit. The moment passed, and Peter continued.

"By the time we got there, you'd arrived and your friends had joined you, which was another pretty stupid move if you ask me. They're fine, by the ways, Draco had a few cracked ribs, but Ginny was the worst. She's come away with a few scars."

Once again, Peter laid no particular emphasis on his words, speaking simply, but they hit Harry like a sledgehammer. He looked at Peter, uncertain as to what he would see, but the older wizard's eyes were gentle.

"She's ok. And you didn't ask her to come."

"I know that," Harry said, looking down at his hands. "That's not the point."

"I think she would disagree."

Harry said nothing for a moment, letting the silence expand. Then: "I remember we went down to the Department of Mysteries. That was…" he shook his head, unable to put words to it. "How much did you see down there?"

"Not much, but I've heard from the others what it was like. It sounds incredible."

"That's one way of putting it," Harry replied. He thought of the bizarre girl in the white room, and shivered. "They were after the Prophecy."

"Yes. We know it was smashed. Probably for the best, although I don't think the Unspeakables were terribly happy about that. Not that anybody cares about them."

For the first time, Peter sounded angry, and Harry looked at him curiously. He was staring off into the distance, his expression distorted into something ugly, but after a moment he shook his head, clearing it away. "Yeah. The Prophecy was smashed, the Death Eaters did their best to kill or maim every last one of you, and then we showed up. There was a fight, then Voldemort arrived. That was pretty much it as far as we were concerned. You chased him up into the main body of the Ministry, and then…I don't know. Something happened that knocked you out completely. He ran away, looked like he was hurt. Took Fudge with him."

Harry nodded absently, Peter's words bringing his memory crawling back to him. He remembered it all now, burning Voldemort's face and him taking the Minister. "Wait a minute, Fudge!"

"Nobody's seen anything of him since that night," Peter said. "Not much of a loss, but it's not good news."

"I think he's dead."

Peter went very still. "Why?"

"While I was…unconscious…I saw something. I think – it wasn't like the times I've seen things through Voldemort's eyes, it was like I was watching something in a Pensieve. He killed Fudge."

Peter released a long breath. "Probably for the best, if we can confirm it."

"Peter, I didn't exactly like him, but that's a bit harsh."

"I don't mean it like that," Peter said irritably. "I'm not going to miss him that much, but I didn't want him dead. It's just easier. Scrimgeour's been voted in as interim Minister, but if we can make it official that'll be better for everyone."

"I guess…" He didn't really know much about the Auror, but it seemed reasonable that a Minister from the ranks of law enforcement would do a better job in the current climate. "Where's everyone else?"

Peter's eyes widened. "Shit. I should probably let someone know you're awake."

Harry laughed as Peter leapt to his feet and hurried to poke his head round the door of the room. He could hear him accosting someone outside, speaking quickly before coming back to his seat.

"Sorry about that. Got a bit caught up in everything. Your family are at home, I think. They're fine, just not here right now. Not exactly visiting hours."

"You're here," Harry pointed out.

"Not as a visitor. I'm here as a guard."

Harry nodded. "Makes sense. Worried about Death Eaters sneaking in – I'm guessing we're at St Mungo's?"

"We are, but we're not just worried about Death Eaters." Peter shifted in his seat. "Things have happened since that night, Harry. We'll talk about that later, but you're going to have to be careful, understand?"

"What's been going on?" Harry asked, but Peter cut him off, pointing a finger at him.

"Promise me. I'm not going to criticise what you did at the Ministry, that was ridiculously brave. A bit short-sighted, but brave. But you can't be like that now. Promise me."

"Alright, alright! I promise!" Harry said, throwing his hands up in defence. "But you're going to have to tell me why."

"We will, but later."

The door opened, and Peter looked towards it. Harry could see his fingers twitching in anticipation of drawing his wand. A man dressed in Healer's robes walked through the door, and Peter visibly relaxed, his body loosening as he sat back in the chair.

"Finally awake, Mister Potter! Delighted to meet you properly at last." The Healer walked across the room, holding out his hand for Harry to shake. His grip was firm, warm, and Harry couldn't help but like him. "My name's Bottomly, Herbert Bottomly. I've been keeping an eye on you for the last month or so. You're a very interesting case, if I might say so."

"It wasn't deliberate," Harry said. Bottomly laughed.

"I'm sure, but I tend to find very few things in life are. Now, there's just a few tests we need to run…"

The Healer turned to the bedside table, laying out a few instruments that Harry really didn't want to know the use of. He looked at Peter pleadingly, but the other wizard was already moving towards the door.

"Have fun, Harry! I'll be back later."

"Great," Harry said glumly.

"Chin up!" Bottomly said, turning back to him with a vial of some mysterious purple liquid. "Now, say 'aah' please."

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"They really want to kill me?"

Peter, Remus and his aunt and uncle were spread in a semi-circle around the bed. Vernon and Petunia periodically shifted uncomfortably, the magic-laced surroundings constantly trying to persuade them that they were in a building that did not exist. They had not spoken much since arriving, beyond a hug that had almost crushed him from his aunt. Harry was getting the distinct impression that they were angry with him, but that was the least of his worries.

"They've said they're going to," Remus said in measured tones, "but they haven't tried anything yet. I'm starting to think that maybe Tulliver's just full of hot air."

"He's a politician, of course he is," Vernon interjected with a loud snort. Petunia looked at him with long suffering disapproval, but didn't say anything.

"I don't think so," Peter said with a shake of his head. "They're just waiting for their moment."

"They've had their moment," Remus argued, "and plenty of them. It's not like we've been able to mount an extensive guard, and nobody's so much as looked suspicious."

"They're Unspeakables; if anyone's going to be hard to spot it's them. And they're not going to try anything in the middle of St. Mungo's, are they?"

Remus sat back in his chair, folding his arms tightly across his chest. "I suppose not. I'm still not convinced."

"Maybe, but I've found it generally pays to prepare for the worst in these situations," Peter said, a sour note to his words.

"I realise that…Muggle? Muggle politics are a little different to your own," Vernon said, stumbling over the still unfamiliar terms, "but surely they're not able to just announce to this Scrubgore chappie that they're going to kill someone and just get away with it?"

"It's Scrimgeour, Uncle," Harry said with a grin. Scrubgore. He was going to remember that. "And he wasn't Minister then."

"He still isn't, not officially," Remus pointed out. "Besides, threatening someone isn't the same as actually doing it."

"So we're just going to sit around and hope they weren't serious?" Petunia exclaimed, folding her arms tighter across her chest. "That's completely ridiculous!"

"We're not just sitting around," Peter snapped defensively. "Why do you think I've been sleeping here, the quality of the food? The whole Order is keeping an eye on things, when they're not on other assignments. We've even got Tonks tailing a couple of the more senior Unspeakables' when she can, but they haven't done anything yet."

Petunia leant forward in her chair, stabbing her finger towards Peter, but Harry cut her off. "I'll be fine, Aunt Petunia," he said. He was a little out of practice at soothing her, but a calm voice had never failed him before. This time, however, he succeeded only in becoming the object of her ire.

"Oh, you will will you? After what you…" She trailed off, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. Vernon squeezed her hand for a moment, and then she continued. "Do you have any idea what we went through? You were in prison! And then you break out and throw yourself right into the arms of terrorists! How could you be so _stupid_?"

There was a deafening silence. Petunia clapped her hand to her mouth, as if holding further recriminations back, but her reddened eyes spoke volumes. Harry sighed, guilt stabbing at him from nowhere. She was right, of course. He hadn't given much thought to how his family must have been feeling over the last few months, and it wasn't as if things were going to improve any time soon. He eased himself up, and slid his legs out of the bed. Remus stood up in a startled motion, but he ignored his guardian, stumbling over to where his aunt was sitting and kneeling beside her. Before she could say anything, he wrapped his arms around her as tight as he could.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Petunia, I really am. I'm not trying to upset you, I just…" He paused for a moment, trying to marshal his thoughts into something she could understand. "I couldn't just sit around and let it happen. I think things would be worse if I hadn't done what I did."

"Harry, you're just a boy…" she whispered, holding him close. He smiled ruefully, glad that she could not see his face.

"That's not going to stop anything, you know that. I'm sorry for upsetting you, but I was just doing what I thought was right. I still think it was, and I'd do it again. I'd have to."

Petunia leaned back, and looked down at him. Then she shook her head and ran a hand over his hair. "I know. You're just like your parents."

"I try," Harry said cheerfully, and she laughed.

"I know you do." She shook her head again, and there was a watery glint in her eye. "That's what worries me."

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Harry couldn't help but feel a little uncomfortable as he limped into the Atrium of the Ministry. His battle with Voldemort hadn't exactly devastated the place, but there were still a few signs of wear and tear – mainly with regard to the Fountain of Magical Brethren, still lacking a centaur and a house-elf. Closer examination revealed that the manly example of a wizard was lacking an arm, and the carefully carved face was now covered in pockmarks.

"Couldn't they find a sculptor to do something about that?" he asked as they walked past. Remus followed his gaze, and shook his head.

"Probably, if anyone cared enough about it to do something. It was Fudge's masterpiece really, and with him gone…"

Harry nodded in understanding. The rest of the Atrium was looking in remarkably good shape, considering. Magic made for easy restoration, of course, although one of the lifts was obviously rather newer than the other, the golden metal still gleaming in the light from the runes etched into the ceiling. They walked straight past the Aurors standing guard, climbing into the older lift, and Remus hit the button for the top floor. The lift juddered into life, and started to rise. Harry leant back against the wall, letting out a long breath.

"Are you ok?" Remus asked with a touch of concern.

Harry waved his hand. "I'm ok. Just a little tired."

"Understandable," Remus said. "You were in bed for a nearly two months, anyone would be sleepy."

"Not like that," Harry replied with a roll of his eyes. Remus chuckled, taking his own position against the wall. "My legs hurt, that's all."

"We'll get you some more potions when we get back, don't worry."

"Yippee," Harry said sourly."

"They're doing you good, you know that," Remus said, wagging his finger at Harry in mock-severity.

"I know, I know," Harry said, "but that doesn't mean I have to like them."

"I don't think anyone likes medicine, to be honest."

"I dunno," Harry mused. "There was this Muggle stuff Aunt Petunia used to give Dudley and I when we were kids. Cough medicine, I think. Tasted like sweets, it was great."

"What was the secret ingredient?"

Harry shrugged, and Remus laughed. "Well, if you can find out, you could make yourself a fortune improving potions."

"I can think of better things to do with my life," Harry said, pulling a face.

"Really? It could benefit thousands of people," his guardian pointed out, and Harry scowled.

"Fine, I can think of more entertaining things to do with my life."

"Oh well, that's perfectly reasonable then."

"Really? A careers talk, now?"

"I'm only teasing!" Remus said, holding his hands up in surrender. "Don't bite my head off, ok?"

"Sorry," Harry muttered. "I don't want to be here…"

"Very few people do, in my experience," Remus said. "Although I agree, it's ridiculous that Scrimgeour couldn't come to St. Mungo's, under the circumstances. He probably wants to dazzle you with his office."

"I don't mind coming to meet him, I just wish it wasn't _here_," Harry explained. "I've seen more than enough of the Ministry to last me a lifetime or two. Although I was climbing the walls in that room…"

"You could barely stand up, never mind climb the walls," Remus said, his brow furrowing. Harry sighed.

"Muggle expression, never mind."

"Ah." The rest of the ascent passed in silence. A couple of minutes later, they jerked to a halt, and the doors sprang open with a ding, revealing a long hallway. At the end was a desk, with a young lady sitting behind it scribbling furiously with a quill. Both lady and desk were flanked by two serious looking wizards in Aurors robes that barely stretched to cover their sizeable muscles; Harry was reasonably certain that if either of them were disarmed, they were both capable of wrestling a decent sized troll to the ground with their bare hands, and he did his best to look as unthreatening as possible.

As they stepped out of the lift, Harry looked around the hallway, frowning. "I'm sure this was a bit more…"

"Flamboyant?" Remus suggested. Harry nodded with a grin. "You're right, but that was under Fudge. Scrimgeour's a bit more business like, shall we say."

"You say that like it's difficult…" They cut the remarks short as they neared the welcoming committee. The two Aurors flicked their eyes over them, taking in every detail before fixing their eyes back on the lift, obviously dismissing them as threats. The secretary ignored them. For quite some time.

Eventually, Remus cleared his throat pointedly. In response, the witch raised her hand, palm outward, and carried on writing. A moment or so later, she marked a full stop with a particularly vicious jab of the quill, replaced the quill in its holder, folded up the parchment with a tap of her wand, and only then looked up at the two of them.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"We did, five minutes ago, but it might have finished by now," Remus replied with a fixed grin. She flashed him a pitying expression, and opened up a diary.

"Names?"

"Lupin, Remus, and Potter, Harry."

The secretary looked up for a second at Harry's name, and flushed slightly. She rallied though, leafing through the pages without losing her composure. "Yes…here you are. He's expecting you."

"We know…" Remus said.

"You can let them in," the witch said to one of the Aurors, ignoring Remus. The Auror swung the office door open, standing aside to let the two wizards in. Remus stepped back to let Harry in first, and the door closed behind them. They were left alone in the room with Rufus Scrimgeour.

The former Auror was sitting in an old armchair by a blazing fire, the flames flashing green but giving off no heat. As a matter of fact, the room was quite chilly. There was a table in front of his chair, covered in various papers, and he held a folder up to his face as he read it. As the click of the door shutting broke the silence, he looked up.

"Ah, Harry! And Remus, good to see you again. How are you both?"

They muttered non-committal answers, shaking his outstretched hand as he stood up. He summoned over two chairs for them with a swish of his wand, and they sat down in front of him. All of a sudden, despite the chill in the room, Harry could feel his palms sweating. He still didn't quite know how this was going to go.

"Well, first of all may I say that it is wonderful to see you up and about again, my boy," Scrimgeour said in effusive tones. His smile appeared genuine though, and Harry matched it tentatively. "We've all been quite worried about you over here, I don't mind telling you. Speaking of which…"

He stood up once more, and made his way over to the neglected desk at the back of the room. Bending over slightly, he began to rummage through the drawers. "Didn't feel right, sitting here just yet," he explained without looking up. "Although since your vision, Harry…ah! Here we go!" When he straightened up, he held a long wooden box, that he passed to Harry. Harry clicked it open, and all was right with the world again.

His wand. He plucked it from the box with a ready smile, feeling the familiar warmth flood through him. Perks' wand had served him well, and wandless magic was becoming ever easier, but they would never replace the familiar holly shaft. He looked up at Scrimgeour with a smile of honest gratitude. "Thank you, sir."

"Oh, don't mention it," Scrimgeour said dismissively. "You need it and deserve it, after all."

"So…we don't need to worry about trials?" Remus asked tentatively, as if reluctant to broach the subject. Scrimgeour laughed.

"Hardly. Merlin, even Cornelius knew Harry should never have been allowed to set foot on that damn island. If it hadn't been for Umbridge…" He shook his head as if the mere thought of the squat witch filled him with loathing. "No, there's no question of a trial. Clear miscarriage of justice."

"I did break out though," Harry said. "And I did quite a bit of damage downstairs…"

"Yes, well, I don't think you want to be worrying too much about the Unspeakables," Scrimgeour said briskly. "Best not to think about them, in fact."

"It's alright, Rufus," Remus cut in. "He knows."

"Oh." Scrimgeour seemed none-plussed for a moment, but then he shook himself. "Well, in that case I suppose you are worrying about them, but you don't need to. I've got my eye on them, if they do try anything."

"That's a real comfort, Minister," Harry said. He almost meant it, and if he hadn't seen the Department of Mysteries for himself, he might have totally meant it. However, he hadn't seen a single piece of magic down there that he had recognised, and he wouldn't have been at all surprised if the Unspeakables would find it laughable easy to bypass any of the security measures the Minister laid out. He didn't say anything though. If he was right, being aware of it wouldn't help.

"Bizarre, really…" Scrimgeour said, apparently to himself. "You think you know someone, then you find out that an entire section of the place you've worked all your life is a…well, a cult, I suppose. Absolutely incredible."

"Hadn't you ever been down there?" Remus asked. Scrimgeour shook his head.

"No. Well, once or twice, but I didn't see much. The most I saw of it was during the clean up – you did quite a number on their rooms, Harry. They wanted you to pay for it, but I told them where they could stick it."

"Thank you very much!" Harry replied indignantly. Say they were going to kill him and then send him the bill for their repairs? The cheek of it!

"I must confess, I still don't really understand this sorcery business very well. "I don't suppose you could enlighten me at all, could you?"

Harry looked at Scrimgeour for a long moment, trying to work the request out. There was something more to it, but he couldn't quite decide what. In the end, he shrugged. "Sure, why not? You remember learning about the Sorcery Wars, right?"

"Vaguely…Binns was teaching even when I was going through my time at Hogwarts, I'm afraid."

"Ok, well apparently, sorcerers were the first people on the planet. There were gods of some sort involved, I think, I'm a bit vague on the details. They created the sorcerers, gave them power, and then left them to it."

"Under the leadership of someone called Tamuz," Remus chipped in. Scrimgeour nodded, and Harry continued.

"Eventually, he died, and everything went horribly wrong. I don't know why, really – a succession challenge, maybe? Anyway, sorcerers started killing each other, and the gods came back, a little bit pissed at what everyone had been doing. As punishment, they stripped those they thought in the wrong of their magic, which if you believe the stories is why there are wizards and Muggles today."

"That's what is _said_ to have happened," Remus said. "We can't prove a word of it."

"He's right, it could all be a load of rubbish. Dumbledore didn't think it was though, and that was good enough for me," Harry said.

"I can understand that," Scrimgeour murmured. "And so…how can you be a sorcerer if they died out centuries ago?"

Harry shrugged. "That I don't know."

"A mystery for another day then…I don't suppose…" The Minister tailed off slightly, and Harry looked at him curiously. The older wizard smiled, a little abashed. "It sounds silly, but I don't suppose I could see it?"

"I don't see why not – unless I'm going to get into trouble for underage magic!"

Scrimgeour barked in laughter. "I give you my word, Harry."

Grinning slightly, Harry reached down to the rug under their feet. It had a floral pattern that seemed at odds with the room around it, but it would suit his purposes nicely. He spread his fingertips through the soft material, and gave a little push. The flowers abruptly took on a much more vivid hue, as if they were basking in the summer sun. A heartbeat passed, and then the rug rippled ever so slightly.

The pattern became real. The flowers sewn into the material began to rise, stretched up past their feet and the table legs. Harry heard Scrimgeour gasp in astonishment as the flowers climbed ever higher. Sitting back in his chair, he watched as the Minister plucked one of the flowers and inhaled.

"It's real…"

"As real as you or I, Minister," Harry said. "Although…I've never quite understood why it's so special, not really. It's basic Transfiguration, I'm just not using my wand."

"I think you'll find that harder than you believe, Harry," Scrimgeour said, not looking at him. His gaze was still fixed on the flower. "Not impossible, but it requires far more effort than you just used. Far more effort than it is worth, usually. That is what makes you special. If we could only reproduce it!"

Harry frowned, tensing in his seat. "I'm not a guinea pig, Minister."

This time Scrimgeour did look at him, and his expression radiated hurt. "Give me a little credit, Harry. I would appreciate it if you would spare a day or so to undergo some tests, but we're not going to cart you off for examination."

"Glad to hear it," Remus growled.

"Well, we'd normally hand you over to the Unspeakables if we _were_ going to do that, and under the circumstances…" Scrimgeour trailed off meaningfully, and then actually met Harry and Remus' eyes. "It was a joke!"


	3. The Initiation

**Chapter 2: The Initiation**

Despite his best efforts to keep his breath steady, Nott was already beginning to find his mask stifling. The smooth metal covered his entire face, cool to the touch, but there was only the smallest slot along the mouth for him to breathe through. Such breath as he could manage was beginning to fog against the mouth-piece, rendering it clammy. It was only a matter of time before it began to drip down his neck, and then he would be forced to do something.

Unfortunately, moving even slightly at this stage would only attract attention. Attention he would be quite happy to avoid.

He was kneeling in the centre of an opulent room, just to the right of a throne. The throne itself was a more modest affair than the surroundings might suggest; good honest oak, with a carved back to the chair. The only significant feature to the throne was the wizard sat in it. Unnervingly tall, even sat down, with long pale fingers steepled in front of his face, the Dark Lord Voldemort was in repose.

Voldemort and Nott were far from alone. Dozens of Death Eaters filled the room, all equally anonymous behind their masks – although their masks were not the plain affair that Nott wore. Theirs were covered in faint markings, each describing different magical effects. For the moment, those spells were being nullified by some charm the Dark Lord had cast; if he had not, then Nott would have been even more nervous than he already was, and more than likely rendered dumb and prostrate by the combined spells.

"The Unspeakables do not appear to have made any move against Potter yet, my Lord," one Death Eater was saying. He had not been identified, and Nott did not recognise the man's voice. He wasn't certain if the lack of introduction was because everyone else knew who the speaker was, or whether he was one of Voldemort's many agents within the Ministry. If he was keeping track of the Unspeakables though…

"And Potter himself?"

Nott repressed a shudder. The Dark Lord spoke quietly, outwardly calm, but nobody in the room could fail to recognise the underlying fury, bordering on disgust. Nott would be the first to admit a deep-seated hatred for the Boy-Who-Lived, but the Dark Lord's anger burnt even hotter than his. For a second, Nott's eyes focused on the livid burn on the Dark Lord's cheek, the pale skin darkened with the mark of a hand print. Not a one of the Death Eaters had been able to do anything to heal the scar, and even Voldemort's own efforts had proven fruitless. Nott could not fathom what sort of magic Potter must have used in order to inflict such an indelible wound, but it seemed his nemesis was capable of far more than he had thought possible. Not for the first time, he wondered whether he had made a fatal mistake in offering his services to Voldemort all those months ago.

He quashed the thought instantly. The Dark Lord was reputed to be able to discern lies and treachery even at a distance. To harbour such thoughts barely a foot away from him would most certainly prove to be a fatal mistake.

"Potter has regained consciousness, my Lord, although I believe he is still weakened. He journeyed to the Ministry for a meeting with the Minister yesterday, and was clearly exhausted afterwards."

"He is still in residence at St. Mungo's, though?"

"For the moment, yes."

Voldemort drummed his fingers against the arm of his throne absently, deep in thought. The Death Eater reporting to him didn't move. After a moment, Voldemort nodded, cool decisiveness sliding over his smooth face.

"We will leave him, for now at least. I want to know more about his…power, before any move is made against him."

Behind his mask, Nott's face creased in frustration. He was here for his chance to hurt Potter, for Merlin's sake! How was he going to get that chance if the Dark Lord kept dancing around the issue?

"Do you have something to add, Bartemius?"

At the Dark Lord's words, the Death Eaters parted around one of their number. The Death Eater in question stood up, his spine straight and his hands clasped behind his back. "My Lord, I…I would suggest that at present, Potter is more vulnerable than he has ever been in his life. We cannot lay a finger on him at his house, and Hogwarts is too well defended even without Dumbledore lurking there. There doesn't seem to be any significant Auror presence at the hospital, and few of the Order."

Voldemort fixed his eyes on the Death Eater. Nott recalled the name now; the disinherited son of the illustrious – or formerly illustrious – Crouch family. He had been a sleeper agent until Potter had escaped the graveyard behind the house that they were currently inhabiting, in the aftermath of the Triwizard tournament.

"While I appreciate your…ah, enthusiasm, Bartemius, I fear you do not understand the true problem. Potter has scarred me. I do not think a certain level of caution is unreasonable."

"But he is defenceless! And with the Ministry in disarray, any one of us could walk in there and…"

Bartemius trailed off, and even though his face was obscured, Nott was fairly sure the man was wincing in anticipation of imminent recrimination. Indeed, the Dark Lord's eyes narrowed slightly.

"Potter is mine. If any one of you lays so much as a finger on him, let alone a spell, and I will destroy you. Is that understood?"

In the silence, Bartemius' slight gulp was just about audible. "Of course, my Lord."

"Excellent." Voldemort turned away from Bartemius, dismissing him from his mind, and his eyes lit upon Nott. The younger wizard felt a little thrill of excitement. Or was it terror? "But I am forgetting our guest! We have a new member of our little brotherhood. Welcome to you, Theodore Nott."

There was a ripple of interest around the room, and Nott shifted where he knelt. His name was not entirely obscure, of course. Even without his noble lineage, which all but the most intellectually backward of the room's occupants would be aware of, he had been making regular appearances in the pages of the _Daily Prophet_ of late. He hadn't expected Eloise to keep his secret, of course, but he had not expected to be focused on quite so much. He was beginning to think he was even more hated than Voldemort himself.

"Of course, we all know what service Theodore has already rendered our cause…" Voldemort continued, "but tonight he truly becomes one of us. You are fully dedicated to our ideals, are you not, Theodore?"

Nott took a deep breath, and for a moment his attention wandered.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

_He had been shivering as he walked through the vast doors into his house. The house-elf was dragging his trunk behind him, its thin arms straining with the weight of it. Unclasping his cloak, he slung it over the stair rail and marched into the library. His mother was sitting by the window, leafing through a book. She looked up as the door opened._

"_Welcome home, Theodore," she said, her voice singularly lacking in familial warmth. He had paid no attention to this however, long since used to it and accepting of it. He walked over to her, planting a kiss carefully on her cheek._

"_Hello, mother."_

"_Your report?"_

_He had kept it in his pocket, knowing it would be the first thing she asked about. He handed it to her, and she broke the seal, perusing the contents of the envelope with interest._

"_Not bad. You could be doing better in Charms though. You want to make me proud, don't you Theodore?"_

"_Of course, mother." He bowed his head slightly. "I'll do better, I promise."_

"_I know you will." Now, she pulled him closer and kissed his cheek. "Now. How was your first term?"_

"_It was great!" he said, a grin blossoming on his face. "The classes are excellent, I'm learning so much!"_

"_I'm delighted to hear it," she said, a faint smile matching his. "And the other children? Are they…suitable?"_

_He frowned slightly. A few months ago, he had known exactly what she meant by that. As a Pureblood, their family was naturally better than most others, even within the Wizarding world. Then there were the Mudbloods. He had always understood that they weren't as good as the Purebloods, although it wasn't their fault, precisely. It was just a simple fact of life. Since arriving at Hogwarts though, things seemed a little bit different. The Granger girl, for instance, knew more about magic than…well, pretty much the entire year. She was bloody annoying, but she was smart. And she wasn't the only one. In fact, half of his fellow Slytherins weren't anywhere near as good as he had assumed they would be._

_He wanted to say this to her, but even then, he had realised that she probably wouldn't approve, although he couldn't say why. Instead, he focused on something that he was a little more certain about._

"_Most of them are, yes. Potter, though…"_

_Sure enough, her face creased with distaste. He didn't really know why she hated the Boy-Who-Lived so much – as far as he knew, they had never met – but it was reflex for him to agree with her on the subject now._

"_I imagine Dumbledore favours him dreadfully," she murmured, only half paying attention to him. He nodded. That actually seemed to be a little bit true. _

"_And half the school. You'd think he was Merlin reborn," he spat. His mother's eyes refocused on him. _

"_You are already twice the wizard he will ever be, Theodore. Do you understand that?"_

_He nodded silently, not quite certain that he was, not yet, but not daring to disagree. She seemed to read his indecision in his eyes, for her expression twisted to one of displeasure. She replaced her bookmark at the page, and set aside the book, standing up._

"_Come with me, Theodore."_

_He followed her out of the library, aflame with curiosity. She swept imperiously through the hall and began to climb the stairs. At the top, she turned left, and Nott's curiosity doubled. The east wing had fallen into disuse back when he was a baby, and he had never been allowed to set foot there. He hesitated at the top of the stairs, but followed after a second. His mother was unlocking a door – with a key, not her wand – and she beckoned him into the room beyond._

_Despite the fact that the room had clearly been out of use for years, it was spotless, not a speck of dust to be seen anywhere. The walls were lined with ceiling high book shelves, save for the two wide windows overlooking the gardens, and in the centre of the room was an ivory desk, the family crest engraved into it. However, the room was dominated by the portrait that hung on the rear wall between the windows. It was a picture of a youngish man, dressed older than he actually was. He wore a finely trimmed beard, dark eyes and hair, and an expression of absolute confidence._

_Jonas Nott. Theodore's father._

_Almost reflexively, Theodore bent at the knee, and he immediately felt his mother's approval._

"_You probably don't remember him, but he was a wonderful man. So brave, so powerful…there was a time when half of this country would bend to the simplest word he uttered."_

"_I wish I'd been able to know him better," Theodore said. His mother nodded._

"_I know, Theodore. I will never forgive those who took him from us."_

_Theodore jerked upright, shocked. Taken from them? He had never heard the full details of his father's death, the subject not being a popular one with his mother. He had had no idea that violence had been involved though._

"_Yes, taken. Your father was cut down in his prime by treachery." His mother's expression creased with hatred, and she practically spat the name: "James Potter. A blood traitor even before he sided against the old ways. He did not even give dear Jonas the courtesy of a duel – he knew he would lose, no doubt. He simply cursed him in the back and left him to die."_

"_James Potter? Wait…Potter's father?" Theodore asked, incredulous. It seemed impossible that the stuck up boy he went to school with could have anything to do with his father's death._

"_May he rot for what he did to me!"_

_Theodore jumped, whirling back to face the portrait. It looked distinctly more animated than it had done, and he chided himself. Of course his father still lived, within the boundaries of the portrait's frame. He had been so still though. He looked up at the portrait, and his father's eyes gazed down on him like a hawk to a vole._

"_Theodore. You are growing up strong, boy?"_

"_Of course, father!" Theodore stood up ramrod straight, puffing his chest out with pride. His father nodded his approval._

"_Good. I know you will bring this family back to its rightful place, boy. But before that…tell me, what do you know of matters of honour?"_

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Theodore brought himself back to the present with a start. If the Dark Lord could see his attention wandering like that…but no. The memory could not have been more than a second or two at most. He had not been cursed, for a start.

"I am yours to command, my Lord," he said, as calmly as he could.

"I know you are, Theodore," Voldemort purred. "I will find you appropriate duties, I assure you…but first, your arm."

Nott stood up sharply, taking a couple of steps forward, closer to the throne, before kneeling once more. He thrust his arm out, palm upwards and the sleeve of his robe falling down his arm to expose his wrist. It fell so perfectly that he could easily believe there was a spell woven into the fabric. Voldemort stood, sweeping his arms downwards as he did so. With his left hand, he grasped Nott's arm in a surprisingly gentle grip – although Nott knew that he would be unable to break away without the Dark Lord's permission, even if he had wanted to – and with his right, he produced his bone white wand.

Nott's eyes were drawn to it. It was a curious instrument, twisted and unusually pale, but then that suited its wizard down to the ground. The air seemed to shiver around the tip, as if it were radiating heat.

"Theodore Nott," Voldemort intoned, his high voice echoing around the chamber. "You stand on the threshold of magnificence. You will be remembered as one of the greatest wizards of the era. But first, as a sign of your dedication…"

Before Nott had a chance to react, to even so much as flinch, Voldemort had stabbed the wand down onto his wrist. There was an instant of searing, staggering pain, and the world suddenly became very hazy indeed.

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"_So, tell me about this girl?"_

_Nott allowed himself a small grin at the thought of Eloise. "She's wonderful, Mother. Intelligent, talented, funny…I think you'd like her."_

"_Of good stock?" _

"_Of course," Nott replied, lying through his teeth. Eloise was quite the opposite of 'good stock', at least as his mother would use the term. But there was no reason for her to know that, not yet at least._

"_Excellent," Madame Nott replied, nodding thoughtfully. She had still not looked up at Nott, gazing into the flickering flames in the grate. For a second she frowned disapprovingly, and clicked her fingers. There was a loud crack of a house-elf arriving, followed almost instantly by another crack signifying its departure. Between the cracks, more logs had been thrown into the grate, and the flames roared higher._

"_Eloise Midgeon, yes?" she continued, still not looking at him. "I must admit, I am not familiar with the name…"_

_Nott closed his eyes, offering up a silent curse to who or whatever might be listening. This was precisely what he had hoped would not happen, although it had always been a slim hope. His mother rarely let anything get past her. She knew perfectly well why she didn't recognise the name – because it was not an old, established Pureblood name._

"_She is Muggleborn, Mother, although I believe from a good background – "_

"_A good background?" she scoffed, pouring as much derision into every syllable as she could. "How could a Mudblood have a good background?"_

"_I – "_

"_First this, and then you perform that foolish stunt with Potter? I expect better of you, Theodore."_

_Nott fell silent, his mother's words ringing in his ears. They hurt, of course they did. He had been trying to live up to her expectations as best he could for as long as he could remember. It was only recently that he had come to believe that maybe not everything his mother said should be taken as gospel truth…but she was right about one thing. Trying to get Potter into trouble with that jumped up Ministry hag had been stupid. No, not stupid – childish. He had revealed that he did not think he was strong enough or talented enough to take the Boy-Who-Lived head on. There was no shame in that itself, of course – how many wizards would profess to be the equal of Albus Dumbledore, or Voldemort? – but it was not proper to draw attention to your weakness. It didn't matter that few of the people who knew anything much about the duel would care about that sort of thing._

"_You are right, Mother. I let you down. I will do better."_

"_See that you do," she said. There was a long moment of silence, disturbed only by the crackling of the wood on the fire. "I had a visitor, a few days ago."_

"_Oh?"_

"_You've heard of Evan Rosier, of course?"_

_Nott could not help the little gasp of shock – and horror – but his mother did not seem to notice. She certainly did not respond. He had indeed heard of Evan Rosier, and he had resolved that staying away from that madman was by far and away the best course of action to take. What had he been doing at their manor?_

"_The Dark Lord is very interested in us, Theodore," his mother was saying, "and I believe that it is quite the opportunity. He cannot fail to succeed this time, the Ministry is too fractured and Dumbledore is getting old. I believe that it would be a profitable alliance."_

"_I'd certainly get a few cracks at Potter," Nott said grimly. "Real ones, this time."_

_Now his mother did look up at him, and a smile was on her face. "That's the spirit, Theodore…"_

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

His vision still swimming, Nott collapsed forward, catching himself as he fell. The pain still streaked up his arm, but even as he thought about it it began to diminish to a dull ache. His throat felt raw; had he been screaming? Suddenly feeling very self-conscious, he pushed himself back to a kneeling position, surreptitiously looking down at his wrist. From underneath the thick black cloth of the robe, he could see a dark, serpentine tongue, filled with power.

"You are one of us now, Theodore," came the smooth voice from above. Nott looked up, meeting the Dark Lord's eyes. The red slits were lit with something disquieting. Something triumphant. But the deal was made now, and he could not – would not – walk away. This was his chance to set things right.

"Your loyal servant, my Lord," he replied, and he bent his head in supplication.


	4. Negotiations

**A/N: **Huh. An update. Who would have thought? Sorry it's been a while, but you know. Life.

**Chapter 3: Negotiations**

Sirius watched in silence as the Nott boy signed himself over to the Dark Lord. Was he truly loyal, or just another craven wastrel, lusting after the power those who attached themselves to Voldemort's star could gather? The Nott family had largely stayed out of the last war, as far as he knew, and although a few Pureblood lords had brought their scions along, Nott had come of his own accord. Given that, his obvious discomfort seemed even more curious – although perhaps he felt there was nowhere else for him to go, after his treachery at Hogwarts…

In the aftermath of his initiation, Nott remained quiet. The meeting passed without much in the way of interest, and drew to a close when the Dark Lord rose to his feet. He strode out in silence, his robes billowing behind him, while the Death Eaters bowed their heads in reverence. After the doors closed, the group began to break up, a few whispered conversations taking place; Sirius followed his master's steps, leaving the hall in search of the study. When he arrived, Voldemort was staring out of the window, his gaze sweeping over the graveyard barely visible in the murky twilight. Sirius closed the door behind him softly, before taking up position a respectful distance behind his master, awaiting his pleasure.

"Questions from you as well, Sirius?" Voldemort murmured without looking at him. "I thought I had your trust…how disappointing."

"I do not claim to like the boy, Master," Sirius replied swiftly, "but I do not doubt his loyalty."

"Really?" Now Voldemort did turn to face him, his red eyes alight with disbelieving amusement. "How touching. But the boy has no real interest in our ideals, Sirius."

"If he were not loyal in some fashion, my Lord, you would have disposed of him already," Sirius replied. "I cannot see his use, but he must have one."

Voldemort's thin lips curved in a warped smile. "Bartemius could learn much from you, my friend. Yes, I have plans for the boy. I am sure he will be most useful. Or rather, his hatred for Potter will be useful…"

Sirius gave a slow nod as understanding dawned. "A distraction. Although…forgive me, my Lord, but you were most emphatic about Harry being yours and yours alone. Do you not think Nott will question this?"

"I do not think he has the brains to do so," Voldemort said, waving a hand dismissively. "He is entirely blinded by 'honour'. He will serve his purpose, though. Potter will be looking for us, of that I have no doubt. Nott can harry him until I have discerned the nature of his magic fully, and once I understand it…"

The Dark Lord clenched his fist tightly. Sirius wondered whether he was aware of the action, or whether it was something reflexive. "I can look into provoking the Unspeakables, my Lord. Have him fighting on two fronts."

"I doubt the Unspeakables will need much prodding to attract Potter's attention," Voldemort scoffed. "Fools…they should be trying to harness that power, not destroy it. If I could only replicate it!"

"I still can't believe sorcery is real," Sirius said, shaking his head in wonder. "I always thought they were a myth."

"It does seem…convenient, that Potter should be the first such sorcerer in so long," Voldemort mused. "I cannot doubt it though. And it perhaps answers that damned prophecy" As he spoke, he raised his hand to his cheek, touching the burnt flesh. Then he shook his head, as if casting away an unpleasant thought. "Power is nothing without the will and knowledge to best use it though, and Potter is…inadequate."

Sirius inclined his head respectfully. He was remembering Harry's prowess at the Ministry, which seemed far from inadequate – although it must be said, his Master had far outstripped his former godson, and always would. Of course, the Dark Lord was the closest thing to a Wizarding God in centuries, so it was hardly surprising.

"How can I serve you, my Lord?"

Voldemort smiled thinly. "I think we need to recall earlier tactics…"

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

"I'm really not happy about this."

"You've said, yes," Remus replied, somewhat snippily in Harry's opinion. He rolled his eyes as his guardian quickened his pace, drawing slightly ahead of Harry. "We're not exactly thrilled about it, you know," Remus threw back over his shoulder. Harry nodded his acknowledgement wearily.

"I know, Moony. Sorry."

"Trust me, I don't blame you," Remus said with feeling. Scrimgeour's proposal had not gone down well. The Unspeakables had agreed that their mission statement – IE, the death of Harry Potter for the 'crime' of sorcery – was perhaps over-zealous. Encouraged by this, Scrimgeour had suggested a one to one session with Silas Tulliver, in the hopes that an explanation, maybe even a demonstration of sorcery, would supress the man's more bloodthirsty tendencies.

Harry was, frankly, not optimistic.

He wasn't certain whether Scrimgeour genuinely believed that the meeting would result in a more harmonious relationship, or even that the Unspeakables wouldn't simply pepper the room with jets of green light that he was far too familiar with at a mere sixteen years old, but the new Minister had certainly done an outstanding job of _appearing_ to believe what he was saying. He was either a far better politician than popular legend had it, or he was infinitely worse. Harry wasn't sure which possibility he preferred, if he was honest.

Still, Remus and Peter had put their respective foot down. They didn't want the meeting to happen at all, but if it was going to they were damned certain it wasn't going to happen on Unspeakable territory. The Unspeakables had promptly replied that they didn't want it happening on Order territory, which was good, since the Order didn't strictly speaking have any territory (Harry supposed that the closest thing would be Malfoy Manor, and asking Lucius if they could borrow his dining room was too awful a prospect to contemplate). As a result, the meeting was taking place in a quiet little café just round the corner from Flourish and Blotts.

The bell over the door jingled as they stepped inside; aside from a bored looking girl behind the counter, the café was empty. Remus nodded at her politely, and led Harry towards a table at the back of the room, sitting down facing the door and window. Harry sat beside him, grabbing a menu and perusing it carefully.

"Snow apple tart and a cinnamon shandy for me, I think," he said to Remus. The older wizard sighed good-naturedly.

"Food? Really?"

"Hey, they might actually try and kill me," Harry pointed out. "I'd hate to go on an empty stomach."

"Don't joke about that," his guardian muttered, but before Harry could apologise he had stepped over to the counter. Harry looked back at the menu with a twinge of guilt. He had only been up and walking about for a couple of weeks, after all. It wasn't surprising that such jokes weren't going over well. As he put the menu down, he felt something scuttle over his foot. He froze instantly, a spark of magic leaping to his fingertips almost without thought. When he looked down, however, he couldn't see anything.

"You ok?" Remus asked, returning and sitting down.

"I think there's something down there," Harry muttered, not looking up. "I felt it, I'm sure of it."

Remus smiled crookedly. "Probably a rat or something."

"This place looks a little too clean for…Oh. Right." Harry shook his head as the penny dropped. "Very cute."

"Happier now?"

"A little," he admitted. Conversation ceased as the girl arrived with his order; she flushed slightly when she caught his eye as she put it in front of him.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" she asked, slightly breathily. Harry shook his head, ignoring the smirk he could see out of the corner of his eye.

"What time are they going to be here?" he asked Remus as the girl walked away. His guardian shrugged.

"They ought to be here in about…" he paused to check his watch. "Ten minutes or so. That's the plan, at least."

Harry grunted, and picked up his fork. Soon, the only sound in the café was the steady click of the fork against the plate, Remus occupied with watching the entrance. When the door finally opened, the bell going off once more, his plate was empty but for a few crumbs. He leant back in his chair as the head of the Unspeakables walked into the café, looking around with a look of distaste. A woman followed him in, cold eyes and dark hair.

She quickly stepped in front of Tulliver, scanning the room with professional speed. Then she gestured at the girl behind the counter, who was looking confused.

"Clear off. This is a private function now."

The girl's eyes widened. "I can't just – who are you?"

Tulliver stepped forward, holding out a piece of parchment inside a wallet. "Ministry business. Get out."

"Don't worry, miss," Harry said, his eyes still on Tulliver. "We'll make sure they don't cause any trouble."

The girl looked at him, but then went out through the back, clearly reluctant. Harry couldn't decide whether he just looked more trustworthy than the Unspeakables, or whether the scar on his head afforded him enough respect to justify abandoning her post. With his foot, Harry slid the chair opposite him away from the table.

"Take a seat."

Tulliver's lips curled, and he pointedly grabbed a different chair, setting it down just far away from the table to be obvious. In a flash of insight, Harry realised that Scrimgeour's 'suggestion' of the meeting had probably been more like an order. Presumably, as Minister, Scrimgeour now had the authority to remove Tulliver from his post if he really wanted to. Which did of course beg the question of why he hadn't done so already…

Tulliver's compantion took up position against the counter, her arms folded tightly across her chest and a sour expression on her face. Harry focused his attention on her boss, who didn't look much happier.

"So," Remus said, clearing his throat. "Why don't we get started?" When there was no disagreement, he continued. "What precisely are you hoping to achieve from this, Silas? Better understanding? Or something else?"

"In all honesty, Lupin, I'm expecting bugger all to come of this," Tulliver said, not taking his eyes off Harry. "I've made my position clear. You're a danger to this world, Potter – not deliberately, don't get me wrong. I don't think you're going to wake up one morning and decide that the world would be a better place if, for instance, America didn't exist. I'm just worried about what'll happen when you lose control over it."

"How do you know I _will_ lose control?" Harry countered. Tulliver laughed, a deep-throated sound that was singularly lacking in mirth.

"Like you haven't done before. Besides, everyone does eventually. You have far too much power for someone so young, and sooner or later something disastrous will happen. You know, like Morecombe."

"That was hardly disastrous," Remus said, leaning forward. "Alright, a few flooded buildings, but in terms of death and injury…"

"Potter won't get that lucky again," the woman said. "Next time, people will die."

"Oh, got a Seer locked up down there as well have you?" Harry shot back. "I didn't think prophecies were that reliable."

"Well, you'd know," the woman said with a knowing look. Harry flinched. He wondered whether she knew that he was, in fact, still ignorant as to the contents of the prophecy that had been made regarding he and Voldemort. Probably not, on balance. Before he said anything else though, he paused, frowning.

"Hang on. Have I met you before?"

"Why do you ask?" came the reply, brimming with calculated disinterest.

"You sound familiar," he explained. His words drew a scowl to the woman's face, marring her striking features.

"We have met. Once."

Harry leant back, trying to place her. It fell into place all too abruptly. "Wait a moment, you're her! You attacked me, near Privet Drive!"

"I tried to talk to you," she corrected him. "You were the one who ran away."

"Yeah, like your approach was so trustworthy," Harry scoffed. "Three people in grey cloaks with a threatening manner? Please."

"You put one of my men in hospital, you little…" She trailed off at a motion from Tulliver, but he could not do anything about her eyes. They blazed with hatred, but Harry met them without flinching. She didn't quite match up to the Dark Lord's glowing red slits.

"He shouldn't have attacked me then, should he?"

"If we're quite done with the pissing contest?" Remus cut in. Harry blinked, un-used to hearing bad language out of his guardian's mouth, but he subsided. Tulliver took a deep breath, his irritation with his subordinate obvious. There was a moment of quiet.

"You want to know what we want, Lupin? We want Potter to not be a sorcerer."

"I'd like not to be a werewolf. You got anything that can help with that?"

Tulliver smiled mirthlessly. "Don't worry. I'm a realist, more than anything. Just because we've got magic doesn't mean we can change everything we'd like to. But that doesn't mean that you can't give it up, does it?"

"You want me to give up _magic_?" Harry asked incredulously. The very idea of it was just ridiculous. Tulliver might as well have asked him to give up breathing, or flying. The Unspeakable snorted.

"Don't be an idiot. You know as well as I do that sorcery doesn't equal magic. You were waving your wand about long before we were interested in you."

"Yeah, but…" Harry trailed off, wondering how he could explain it. For that matter, he wondered if there was any point. Tulliver did not strike him as someone who was easily swayed. It was probably true to say that he didn't use sorcery that often, or at least not as extensively as they seemed to think he did. Then again, much of what he had used it for wasn't really that different to what any skilled wizard could do with a wand; it just came easier to him. The main difference, as far as he could see, was his perception of the magic around him, and he didn't think he could stop doing that if he tried. Not all the time. Merlin knew he'd cursed it enough over the last few years.

Besides, it had grown on him somewhat.

"It's not like I learnt how to do it one day and I can just forget how to do it," he said, starting again. "It's not a magical discipline, it's just…there. There's no real difference between me casting a spell through my wand or me just pointing a finger at something and willing it. Ok, technically there is, I suppose, but…" He trailed off again, lost for words. Tulliver did not look impressed.

"Not where it counts?" Remus suggested, quietly. Harry looked at him gratefully, and nodded.

"What a load of bollocks," the woman muttered. Harry glared at her.

"If you're not going to give it up, then we have a problem, Potter." Tulliver leaned forward, splaying his hands on the table. "Look, I know I'm being tough about this. It's nothing personal, you've got to understand that. I don't really give a shit about you one way or the other."

"Thanks."

"But I do care about our world – not the magical world, the planet. Sorcery is too much. You should see some of the things we've got down there, they'd turn your stomach. And all because some people can't control themselves."

"If you've got all this stuff, then _show me_!" Harry exclaimed. "You sit there, shouting at me like I'm some – some stupid little kid waving a match around, worried I'm going to burn the house down or something; _show me_. You're the closest thing to an expert on all this I've ever met. Hell, you seem to know more about it than Dumbledore did! So use it. Show me what I can do, show me how to use it properly!"

Tulliver shook his head. He almost looked sad. "You just don't get it." He stood up, pushing the chair across the room. "I agreed to this meeting in the hope that you'd see sense. Looks like I overestimated you."

"Really? Because from where I'm sitting it looks like you're a fucking idiot," Harry spat. "If you were willing to think about things…"

His scar exploded with pain.

Harry let out a shuddering gasp, the words snatched from his lips as he fell forward, clutching at the table. Something surged within him, and a burst of magic leapt out through his hands. The table dissolved beneath him, collapsing into coloured motes that faded away as he fell to the floor. Tulliver jerked backwards, alarmed, and the woman drew her wand, the tip beginning to glow as she prepared a spell. Remus leapt to his feet, reaching for his own wand.

Then there was a quiet little pop, and Peter appeared behind the woman, shifting back from his rat form to human impossibly quickly. He was holding his wand to her neck, and she froze.

"Walk away," he said, very quietly. There was silence, save for Harry's ragged breathing. Tulliver must have made some sign, because the woman sheathed her wand and moved away. Tulliver did not move for a moment. Harry raised his head to find him looking down, his eyes empty of all emotion.

"Like I said, Potter. You just don't get it."

The Unspeakables left them, Peter's wand tracking them all the way out of the café. As the door clicked shut, Remus bent down over Harry, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Harry. What's wrong?"

"It's Voldemort," Harry said, still shaking from the pain that had floored him. "He's happy about something…really happy."


End file.
